Boba Fett: Restitution
by Apokoliptik
Summary: "No disintegrations" takes on a new meaning for Boba Fett when Darth Vader discovers the emotions Fett is hiding. As cold and ruthless a bounty hunter he is, can Fett preserve his reputation and live with his betrayal against the one he secretly loves?
1. Prologue

"W-why are you doing this?" she stammered, stunned by the blow. Boba Fett had slammed her against the wall in a rage. After all the years she had known him, she never thought he would ever hurt her.

Years ago while a slave in Jabba's shipyard, she first feared him as everyone did. He had a reputation that kept others wary of his presence. He was deadly – and everyone knew it. Yet, through all her lonely and painful years under Jabba, it was ironically her moments with the bounty hunter that brought her the most comfort. Over the course of seven years, a unique and discrete relationship grew between them through subtle kindnesses and brief conversations. Greta couldn't be sure, but she recognized that he seemed to prefer her company in the great hall over anyone else - even his customary solitude. Some nights, he would find her in the shipyard after hours and they would work on the _Slave I _together. Sometimes, they talked. Sometimes, he acknowledged her in the hall with a look her way. And even though she could not see his face, she could tell by now when he was looking at her.

All those memories seemed worthless now as he pinned her against a wall in his holding cell with one hand on her neck. She couldn't speak, she couldn't breathe . . . Her mind was screaming, _Boba, please . . . !  
_

"You _will_ do as I say," he growled. He let go of her roughly and looked at her momentarily, as though he were struggling with himself. Before Greta could speak, he turned from her and slammed the cell door shut behind him.

Greta, shaking and white, slowly sank to the floor. Tears fell from her eyes – ones she had held back from showing him, knowing he would despise her all the more for this weakness. Never had she felt so alone, for all the terrible years she had spent in Jabba's palace. It didn't make sense why he was treating her like this. For years, he had been a calm, steady presence in her life, one who never hastened to anger but did everything with such precise control. Perhaps he was an impostor? Someone looking to steal his identity? Alas, no - Greta knew in her heart that this man _was_ him: his posture, intonations, his movements all belonged to the Boba she knew, this man whom she had loved for so long.

And now she felt ashamed of her feelings, afraid they were built on nothing but a self-made delusion. She couldn't be sure of anything she knew about him now.

On the floor, in her confusion and sorrow, Greta wept.


	2. Self doubt

Chapter 2 is up! I know this is short, but it's all I could muster for today . . . Thanks for the one lovely review I recently received. More to come . . .

***

He heard her weeping softly. It came through the intercom linked to his helmet.

Standing in the cockpit, Boba stared into the darkness of space and switched off the link. A sickening feeling that he could not name washed over him as his thoughts locked on her face and how hurt she was. He never thought it would affect him like this. He needed to treat her like his other prisoners. He needed to prove to himself he could do it, that he wasn't weak. It was a liability for him to feel this way about her. Love made people soft; love made people foolish. And he had promised himself he would never be affected by it.

But here he was, slightly trembling at the force of his conflicted feelings, angry that he could not overcome this – this weakness – for her.

_How would she ever forgive me__?_

Boba Fett was, for the first time, taken aback by his own thoughts and feelings. Something hidden beneath the Mandalorian armor and unmistakably human had pushed its way into his guarded heart; it had come long before he even realized it existed. Angrily, he pushed the thought away and steeled himself for the inevitable. He _would_ hand her over to Vader, and it would be over.

The thought made him uneasy, but he held tightly to it still.


	3. Like Hard Merchandise

_Light years away on Tatooine, in Jabba the Hutt's filthy palace __. . ._

A young girl, dressed in white and holding a water pitcher, hovered by a dark corner of the audience chamber. She peered out of the darkness wearing a grim expression. Jabba was tormenting a dancer on the floor and everyone in the chamber knew one thing: The dancer wouldn't last long today. She was entertaining the Hutt far too well, and the air was electric.

Finally, the one she was waiting for appeared. "Looks like rancor be fed today," said the little Gamorrean thickly. Lethia ignored his remark. She already knew the dancer's fate and didn't want to dwell on it. "Do you have any news?"

The Gamorrean grunted, "I have."

"So, let's have it."

"Pay first. Talk after," he replied. Lethia narrowed her eyes and hissed, "I already did."

"Den no talk," he said, smiling. Anger flashed in the girl's eyes. Despite her size, she was older than people thought and hardly as innocent as she looked. Her vibroblade was already edged into his side, next to his heart. "Scum, tell me what's happened to Greta."

The Gamorrean shuffled uncomfortably on his feet, then began quietly. "Shipyard mates. Dey say she was took. . ." his voice trailed off. Lethia gave him an impatient look and he bent closer in with a whisper. ". . . dey say was Boba Fett. He tooks her, like she was hard merchandise."

Lethia stared incredulously. "Boba Fett? You sure?"

"Dat wat Zengling and Fink says. Saw Fett hold blaster to her. Greta with cuffs - into Slave I."

Lethia shook her head. "I can't believe it." Her thoughts were interrupted with a raucous laughter and a piercing scream. The rancor had his meal. The Gamorrean shrugged. "Well, dat his job, ain't it? He bounty hunter."

"The price must have been high," she mumbled.

After the Gamorrean left, Lethia tried to make sense of what had happened. Someone had placed a bounty on Greta's head – one big enough to tempt Boba Fett into taking it. It didn't seem right, though; from what she knew, Fett only took certain bounties that agreed with his sense of justice. What could Greta, of all people, have done to cross him?

She thought of Greta, who looked after her like an older sister. She was gentle and sweet, but feisty when she had to be. Years of slavery had given her a tougher skin when push came to shove. But it seemed unlikely that Greta could have incurred anyone's wrath. In the past, Greta had been a mechanic's daughter and a slave for most of her life. At Jabba's palace, she was one of the most diligent and skilled workers. Perhaps, she thought, Greta's one mistake was her nonchalant "friendship" with the bounty hunter.

And she had thought Boba Fett had a "thing" for Greta. The way he hung around the shipyard and how he would only ask her to look at his ship. _If Fett only saw Greta has his mechanic, he was an idiot_, she thought. Greta was beautiful, and smart, and compassionate; if he couldn't see how attractive she was, he had to be a droid – or, incredibly cruel. Lethia gripped her vibrobrade until her nails dug into her hand.

_If only I were free_, she thought. _I'd show him what years of desperation can do a young thing like me._


	4. The choice is made

Greta awoke slowly. Her right jaw was throbbing and the bruises on her arms had blackened overnight into the shape of the hands that caused them. It also didn't help that she had to sleep on the floor and that her neck and shoulders felt whiplashed. The pain told her immediately that the events of the night before were not a dream, that she had indeed been taken by Boba Fett and treated brutally by him. Her eyes were sore and it was hard to open them. And there was a cut on her lip that cracked when she tried to move her pasty mouth.

The lights in the cell never turned off, emitting a sharp florescence that flooded the entire cell. Probably to keep prisoners in plain view at all times. Besides a small drain in the floor, there was nothing in the cell. No sink, no toilet, nothing that could be taken apart and used as a makeshift weapon. He certainly didn't take any risks.

Steadying herself with the wall, Greta limped over to the door, a thick slab of steel with no windows and no latches. She felt around the door, but she found nothing. Somehow, he must have surveillance output linked to the cell, or at least audio. Her cheeks flushed in anger and shame, fearful that she was nothing more to him than the other galaxy scum he had collected as hard merchandise.

How had this happened? she wondered. She remembered coming out of her quarters that night and had turned down the corridor toward the shipyard. Rounding the corner, she felt a hand on her shoulder and something hard at her back.

"You're coming with me," said the familiar, metallic voice. Greta, confused, turned to face him, but he already had her arms in grip, twisting them behind her back. Bewildered, she fought back, struggling against his tight hold, but managed to land a hard kick. As she got up to her feet, she felt the hard edge of his rifle butt hitting her jaw from the right. It sent her to the ground and on to her side, crushing her confined arms beneath her own weight.

As quickly as it had happened, the bounty hunter was kneeling over her, assessing her jaw. It was as though he were making sure it wasn't anything serious. Then, when satisfied, he yanked her to her feet and pushed her down the corridor to the shipyard and docking bay. She had stumbled onto the Slave I, unsure of what lay ahead of her. Her question seemed answered when he brought her to the holding cells. Incredulous, Greta confronted him again. "This isn't like you, Boba."

He dragged her into the cell by the cuffs until she lost balance and fell. "This is exactly who I am," he growled, picking her up and pinning her against the wall . . .

Greta snapped out of the memory when the cell door began to open. She backed away into the farthest corner, unsure of what he might do.

"Time to go," he said flatly. "Lord Vader is waiting."

Greta's mouth gaped slightly in surprise. "You're taking me to – no . . . you can't be." She shrank from him even more. The betrayal was worse than she'd imagined.

Boba clenched his jaw. She would not make this easy for him. Without hesitation, he pointed his blaster at her.

"Do it," she said. It didn't matter if she lived or died now; he was really going to hand her over to Darth Vader – and_ that_ was worse than death.

"You're not worth anything to me dead," he replied. He moved so quickly, she barely realized he had put her in cuffs – again.

"Son of a bitch," she snarled. "You son of a bitch!"

With a jerk, he pulled her out of the cell and down the hall.

* * *

She said nothing as she walked, unable to accept her fate and the truth of Boba Fett's ruthlessness. She found it difficult to reconcile the two Bobas she now knew. It didn't help, either, that old memories kept invading her mind, that she unconsciously allowed them, to look back at the cherished moments that once gave her a reason to live.

She was thinking of the first time he had touched her, his hand grazing her lower back as they walked down to Jabba's audience chamber. There was something instinctively protective about the gesture, and it had sent a spark racing along her spine. Or, the time she had developed cave blindness from lack of exposure to natural light. She had woken up early one morning to find herself absolutely sightless. Her friend, Lethia, knowing that Jabba threw infirm slaves to the rancor, bravely sought out the bounty hunter for help. He came quickly to her side, his gloved hands lightly examining her face and eyes. She remembered the smell of blasterfire and fuel fluid. The memories could not be false. She had to try again.

They were near the off-ramp when she quietly asked, "Was it something I did? Something I said?" She had boldly turned to face him, knowing full well what he was capable of.

Boba smiled bitterly beneath the visor. None of this was her fault. Her eyes were pleading – the same look that drew compassion from him; that unlocked his emotions and made him unbearably weak, unbearably human. He could not afford showing any weakness now, especially not at Vader's doorstep.

"Vader placed the bounty on you; I took the job." he said finally. "This is what I do; who I am."

"But you don't have to do this," she said, searching for his eyes behind the visor. "You chose to take the job."

"You presume there's a reason why I shouldn't," he said coldly.

Greta's face darkened. So there it was. He had spoken the fear that had been eating at her ever since he captured her: She meant absolutely nothing to him.

"I guess I did," she replied numbly. "I was wrong."

* * *

Several Stormtroopers and a Crimson Guard greeted them in the landing bay. As Greta stepped out of the Slave I, the hair on the back of her neck stood on end, chilled by the shielded and visored gaze that surrounded her. It seemed to be a pattern, being held captive by men who discarded compassion and sympathy, and all the things that made them human. These men, exchanging their faces for masks, seemed destined to rule her life.

And this was it. Boba Fett had brought her as far as the Deathstar, and she watched helplessly as he spoke to the Crimson Guard, who seemed to be studying her. She couldn't hear what they were saying, but the Guard handed Fett a credit chip and that was all she needed to know. Without a word or even a glance her way, Fett nodded to the Guard, and left. Greta watched as he walked stiffly into the ship, his hands clenched into fists until the ramp began to close.

Greta, to put it lightly, was falling apart inwardly. Though she didn't dare show it, she felt the hole in her gut widen and grow until it consumed everything. Then, everything went numb. The guards took her by the arms and led her deeper into the Deathstar, headed by the Crimson Guard. She hardly heard the Slave I's jets fire, launching it into space as her heart sank deeper into the consuming darkness. By the time the spaceport doors closed, her heart had completely disappeared.


	5. Heartstrings

Darth Vader waited silently in the Emperor's throne room for the prisoner. It amused him how easily the bounty hunter had succumbed. Admittedly, Fett was good at hiding his emotions, but not nearly good enough to deceive the Dark Lord. The moment Fett had turned his back on the girl, Vader detected faint waves of guilt and self-loathing. Vader smiled to himself. How easy it was to manipulate others into submission when pride was involved.

Now that he had tapped into Fett's true weakness, he would have control over the bounty hunter as he wished.

Previously, Fett had openly disobeyed Vader, distintegrating a bounty when he was to keep the hunted alive. Vader had seen the move as direct defiance and disregard for his power and status. And he would have to make an example out of him.

On one of Fett's more recent visits, Vader had probed his mind for anything he could use against the bounty hunter. At first, all he found were tasks, strategies and plans – logistics laid out for his most current job. It impressed him how methodical and efficient the hunter was. Then, beneath the hardened layers, Vader found what he was looking for: tell-tale images of a young woman that spoke of a long-repressed affection – her beautiful smile, the way she looked at him, the curiosity of her eyes . . . all soundless memories imprinted with a guarded tenderness.

_Ah, so one of the most feared men in the galaxy __is in love, _he thought_. How quaint_. And it amused him even more to see that the hunter was hardly aware of his deepening feelings for this woman.

_Greta_. Her name formed wordlessly as an aura belonging to Fett's mental images. She was a slave in Jabba's palace; a mechanic and nothing remarkable. _Pathetic_, he thought. _She wears emotions on her sleeve_.

By the end of Fett's visit, Vader had everything he needed to secure his power over the hunter. This Greta would give him access to the heartstrings Fett so carefully guarded. And he was right.

"A word before you go," Vader had said. "You have been in my service for many years now. But all this may change. I have come to believe you may no longer be suitable for my patronage."

Fett stopped and stood silently. "Why is that?"

"You've grown soft, Fett," he hissed. "You've let yourself be tainted by the stain of human emotion."

"What do you mean?" Fett replied tersely.

"Who is – " Vader turned and looked out to the great expanse of space, "Greta?"

The sound of her name coming from Vader's dark voice sent a chill through Fett's spine. Attempting to deny his reaction, Fett replied flatly, "Jabba's slave."

"Yes. Someone you have known for a long time, Fett." Vader turned to look at the hunter, who looked still but who emitted a quickening of the pulse so faint only someone such as the Dark Lord could detect it. "Someone you have _feelings_ for." Vader spat the last words as though they were poison.

"I have feelings for no one," Fett quickly denied.

"Then why does your mind contain such lovely pictures of this woman, coloured by the same kind of inferior energy we recognize as _love_?"

Fett clenched his fists as Vader continued to dig. "You cannot deny what I have seen, bounty hunter," Vader continued. "How can I trust you if you can let yourself become so weak?" he spat. The accusation stung Fett more than he let on. Of course, Vader knew just how his words would affect him. Fett was the greatest bounty hunter in the galaxy, and the most feared. And Vader knew the man's weakness was in his pride of being the best, the strongest – and never the weaker.

"You want to prove to me you are still worthy of my patronage?" Vader toyed, now wrapping the final part of Fett's pride around his finger, "Bring me the girl."

Vader sensed a spike of emotion in the hunter. The request had discernibly disturbed him. "Bring me this Greta, and I will ensure your reputation remains intact."

For a moment, Fett was silent, his fingers digging deeper into his fists until at last he answered, "As you wish."

Their conversation ended there, with Boba Fett turning to fulfill the agreement, and Darth Vader smiling under his mask. How pathetic of Fett to be so easily manipulated by his pride and so eager to betray someone he loved.

And Fett had done it. Back to the present, Vader's thoughts were interrupted by the appearance of the Stormtroopers and the girl he had asked Boba Fett to bring. Just as he saw in the hunter's thoughts, she was nothing remarkable, dirty, and as he could sense – fearful.

"Greta," he said in his harsh, metallic tone. "Welcome."

The young woman narrowed her eyes. Her jaw jutted forward as her whole body seemed ready to fight. Such a different reaction than the one he sensed from her as a moment ago! Then, she seemed so frail, and now – Vader smiled – the anger and hatred of the betrayal had begun its process, rooting out the weaknesses of human nature. She would make an excellent subject for what he had in mind.

"Why have you asked for me?" she asked, boldly.

"Don't take offense, child," Vader began. "But this hardly has anything to do with you."

Greta looked at him incredulously. "Boba Fett?"

"Who else?" said Vader. "My reward for his good service to me is to make him as complete and as lethal a hunter as he could ever be."

"Then why me?" Greta asked, confused. "How is my capture your reward to him?"

Vader chuckled. "There is much for you to understand about the ways of men in this galaxy. Those who wish to gain power do so by force, harnessing the strongest human emotions, like anger, jealousy and rage."

"I've heard this before," Greta spat. "You think compassion, kindness and love are weaknesses. It's sad to think your entire empire is based on these assumptions, that you keep your legion of men under this authority, turning them into slaves to their own arrogance."

"They only recognize the way to true power and success, " he scoffed. "And so has Boba Fett." The truth cut deeply and there was no denying it. In her disappointment, Greta lowered her head in silent agreement.

He continued. "Yes, you understand how it is. Now you see how this has nothing to do with you. You are of no consequence to _him_ or me, but I have already found a suitable place for you here."

"What will you do with me?"

"You, child," he said proudly, "will be among the many privileged to take part in the building of this empire. You will help us discover new ways to conquer the galaxy and show us what our technology can do to the human body."

Greta's heart stopped and an overwhelming tide of fear swept over her. She had heard rumours, but never could verify their truth. She had heard of torture, injections and brainwashing . . . No one came out of an Imperial lab in once piece.

The pronouncement of her fate left her feeling only the dread of the future, overshadowing even her previous anger at Fett's betrayal. Only the thought of needles and knives remained, and Greta threw up.

Vader smiled. Her fear was endearing. "Take her to the lab," he ordered. "Be proud, Greta. You are about to become part of a great cause."


	6. Lethia

6. Lethia

Several months went by since Greta was taken away and life at the palace continued, barely noting her absence. Galaxy scum came and went. New slaves were brought in, bounty hunters collected their credits and business was as usual. The only thing different was that Boba Fett was hardly seen there anymore.

Lethia served water in the audience chamber as usual, but her expression had hardened. Her once porcelain skin was now thin and drawn over her cheekbones. It had not been easy for her to accept Greta's disappearance and the loneliness which came with her absence.

Nine years ago, when she was only six, Lethia had been taken to Jabba as a slave. Her father, a moisture farmer on Jabba's land, had been terminated for not producing enough crop and she, still in the burning house, was pulled out by an ugly Twi'lek only to be presented to the ugly Hutt in hopes of gaining a few credits. Fortunately for her, a then 18-year-old Greta who had just finished her first year as Jabba's slave, had seen the small, shivering girl, and felt at that moment, a need to rescue her.

The fat Hutt laughed at the child with the silver-blond hair. "What should we do with her?" he asked the audience. The room shook with the cries of his slimy clientele.

"Feed her to the rancor!"

"Bake her in the sun!"

"Tear her apart!"

A steady female voice interrupted the mob. "Let her live."

The crowd parted as Greta approached the Hutt's throne, careful not to pause over the trapdoor. She was wearing a mechanic's outfit, soiled from engine grease and fuel fluid. The Hutt's watery eyes stared. Her proposition intrigued him.

"Why? Her father owed me millions of credits in moisture. I will do as I please to his daughter."

"She grew up on a moisture farm. She knows all about it – how to handle it and store it with the utmost care."

"What do I need with a moisture connoisseur?"

"Why wouldn't you need one, oh great Hutt?" The fat worm wiggled a bit, visibly showing his delight at being flattered. "Your stores of moisture are unparalleled in the galaxy, despite this dry planet. And you of all Hutts know how precious moisture is. Your current slaves lose gallons by not storing it properly. You don't want all of your precious moisture to evaporate, now would you?"

Lethia, though then only a child, chimed in. "Yes. I was my father's water keeper. He taught me how to conserve every drop and to practice the best storage protocol."

The Hutt licked his oversized lips, and after a long, agonizing silence, he sputtered, "Very well." Jabba then looked at Greta. "Mechanic, since you're so willing to save this one, you be in charge of her. Show her to the moisture plant."

Lethia smiled at the memory of her guardian. If it weren't for the Hutt's greediness and Greta's initiative, Lethia would have become one of the rancor's meals. And since then, Greta had been like a sister to her, and her only friend. So when Boba Fett entered the picture soon after, she was suspicious, being naturally possessive of the only one who was like family to her. She did not want to share her friend, especially not with a man with so widely feared a reputation.

She remembered how Fett would solicit her – and over the next several years, Lethia noticed the frequency of his visits, observing an attachment that was unspoken, but deeply rooted. Greta, she recalled, didn't speak of her relationship with Boba Fett. It wasn't until Lethia confronted Greta, almost five years since their acquaintance began, about the nature of their attachment.

Greta had shrugged. "It's a working partnership, Lethe. I don't know what else you could be suggesting."

"But he singles you out – almost every time."

"Like when?"

Lethia drummed her fingers, thinking. "Like, whenever you enter the chamber, he looks your way."

"You can't be certain he's looking at me."

"He always turns his head."

"Well, have you seen his eyes?"

Lethia kicked at the dirt. "No," she replied defeatedly. "Just tell me, Greta. Do you like him?"

Greta shrugged again. "There's nothing to like or dislike. He's just – " A slow smile spread on her lips.

"What?"

"He helps make time go by quicker. That's all."

"Oooooh!" cooed the younger in a sing-song voice. "You _do_ like him! You enjoy his company! But – " she paused. "Aren't you afraid of him?"

Greta looked down at her drink and tapped the glass with her fingers. "A little, yes. His reputation is infamous. And I've seen all of his bounties from Jabba claimed. He never loses. Ever."

"He's like a droid," Lethia said off-handedly. Suddenly, a thought occurred to her. "Do you think he really is one? That's he's not a man after all?"

"The thought had crossed my mind," Greta replied. "But he isn't. I'm quite sure. I don't know how, Lethe – just, little things, I guess."

"What little things?"

"I don't know. Just give it a rest Lethe. I don't know." A flush was rising from Greta's neck into her cheeks. She had been thinking about Boba Fett and the moments he would touch her, or watch her – even the ways he spoke to her.

"Ok," said Lethia rather disappointedly. "But doesn't it make you think – of, you know, - that future?"

"What's the point? Hope isn't useful for people like us, Lethe. I don't want to delude myself, The only thing I'm trying my best to do is staying alive."

At present, a drunken stormtrooper wandered over to the bar, demanding a glass of moisture and subsequently interrupting her thoughts. He was talking loudly when Lethia approached, banging his fist on the table. He was making such a commotion that everyone around him stared. The trooper's helmet was off, revealing a mass of sweaty hair and an ugly face – a thug. That's what they all were, coming into the palace like they owned it.

Lethia quickly and expertly poured him a glass of moisture, of which he slammed back like cheap liquor. He hit the empty glass back on the bar and Lethia filled it again. This time, the trooper drank it more slowly, while eyeing her standing next to him in her white uniform. But before the obnoxious trooper could say anything, a rough-looking fellow sat down next to him and began a conversation.

Seeing her chance to shake off the trooper's attention, Lethia slipped away behind a pillar, listening. She knew, by experience, that the man talking to the trooper was Logos Pathan, a merchant whose wordiness certainly lived up to his name.

Usually, when stormtroopers came to the palace, Lethia would eavesdrop on their conversations, just in case she could hear anything about Greta, by the slim chance they knew anything. But over the months, Lethia had heard nothing and was losing hope about ever hearing about her friend.

Today seemed fruitless, until she heard the stormtrooper talking about Boba Fett. Her ears pricked up and she leaned more fully against the pillar to hear the details. The stormtrooper had checked behind him, making sure Fett was absent, and began:

"I've seen Boba Fett with Darth Vader, pal. I'm telling you that's where he's been all this time."

"Fett used to hang around here a lot." Logos said. "Used to come here to get his ship repaired by a female mechanic – and no one else."

The stormtrooper smirked. "A female mechanic? He want his ship to cough and bitch at him in hyperspace?"

"She was good," replied Logos. "Had her lookit a few things on my own ship."

"Maybe I can get her to look at a few things, too," the stormtrooper said with a dirty grin. "Where can I find her?"

Logos sipped his drink, answering from the side of his mouth. "Sh'not here anymore."

"Lemme guess, Fett took her for himself."

"Dunno, might have. He stopped coming here after she disappeared."

The stormtrooper fingered his glass, thinking. Finally, he said, "Fett's brought a woman to the Deathstar."

Lethia leaned in, hurting her neck as she strained forward. She had to hear this.

"Really?" Logos replied, disinterested. "Sure he's brought plenty to Vader."

"This was different. Fett never looked so reluctant to deliver a bounty before."

"How could you tell?"

"He kept staring at her, you know – just looking her direction. When he got back in the ship, he punched the hatch command so hard, I heard the knob crack."

"Maybe that had nothing to do with the ship. Maybe he didn't get paid in full? That always makes me mad."

The stormtrooper shook his head. "Naw – you'd be mad if Vader made you give up something you didn't want to give up. She was real pretty. Brown hair, nice curves. Had a bracelet tattooed on her wrist."

Lethia almost choked on her own spit.

Logos put down his glass, his interest now raised. "That's her. The female mechanic. What happened to her?"

The stormtrooper shrugged. "It's a shame. Vader sent her to the labs."

"What labs? You mean, experiments?"

"Yeah. I've never seen it, but you need special clearance to get in. It's too bad – when you're sent to the labs, don't' expect to come out."

"But what for?"

"Not sure. I hear they take worthless humans for military experiments – to create enhanced soldiers to defeat the Rebels." The stormtrooper held up his hands, claw-like. "Gene therapy, mecchies for hands, droid parts for eyes – to make cyborgs and other freaks."

Logos shook his head. "You serious? That's fucking twisted, man."

"Never underestimate what lengths the Empire would go to conquer the universe, pal."

At this point, the conversation turned to the Rebels and ways the Empire was going to wipe them all out. Lethia leaned on the pillar for support as the words _Mecchies for hands_ repeated in her mind. She was so angry, and so bewildered that her hands shook, spilling precious moisture from the pitcher. Her friend could be dead – or worse, a mindless patchwork slave to the Empire. All because of the man Greta had trusted and perhaps loved.

Lethia had made a choice. She was going to kill that bastard Boba Fett.


	7. Disturbed Conscience

Thanks to those who reviewed! I'm working on six more chapters or so in attempt to wrap this up - so stay tuned! Sorry about any glitches in logic here; colds don't lend to clarity of mind when writing.

* * *

He was running through a thick, endless brush that resembled the forests of Endor. His target was ahead, weaving expertly through the trees at an impossible speed. For the first time, Boba Fett could not keep up. His target seemed to be anticipating his every move. Every shot he fired missed the target slimly, and he was growing – amazingly – agitated. Then, as if it couldn't get worse, the target disappeared. Every sensor from his helmet read nothing. Turning up the receptors, Fett listened, looking for changes in sounds and pitch in the air – but not even the heat sensors detected anything. It ennerved him that he was having this much trouble locating his target.

Before he knew it, someone tackled him from behind, knocking the wind out of him. A blurred figure pinned him down, ramming the end of a rifle into his helmet and shoulders while aiming for his neck. Fett, despite the crushing force, managed to kick him off, but suddenly caught a glimpse of the stranger.

Deftly getting to his feet was the figure of a Mandalorian soldier whose armour was identical to his own, right to the dents and wookie scalp displayed on his shoulder. Pointing his blaster at the copycat, he growled, "What is this?"

His twin said nothing, but lunged quickly with vibroblade in hand. Fett's own reflexes were just as fast and he caught the man, turning the blade suddenly upon himself. As Fett pushed the imposter's own hand into his chest, the stranger let out a gasp as the blood seeped out. Seconds later, he was on the ground, motionless.

For Fett, watching "himself" die, disturbed him deeply. Not that he hadn't encountered imposters before. This was one was different. He was good – almost as good as if he were himself. Kneeling down, Fett grasped the helmet on both sides, knowing exactly where the latches were. As he lifted the helmet from the body, a mass of soft, brown hair fell around the shoulders.

He dropped the helmet like it was a diseased thing. It was Greta's face staring back at him.

* * *

Boba Fett awoke. Breathing heavily, he touched his hand to his helmeted head, and let out a deep breath. The dream was vivid – almost too real, but certainly not Force-induced. And it was the first time he had dreamt in years. Seldom did Fett sleep long enough or remember dreams – if he even had them at all.

Sitting at the console of his ship and trying to forget the dream, Fett couldn't shake off the emotions that came with it.

It had been eight months since he left Greta at the Deathstar. Since then, he had continued on with his life, believing he could forget everything. But the dream – damn it all – had ruined months of suppression. It dredged up everything he should have been feeling and tore down the walls he so carefully built.

In his frustration, Fett got up and paced the bridge. He was angry at himself for allowing Greta into his life. What a fool he was to let his guard down – yet how equally foolish he was to play Vader's game. Though he was more successful as a bounty hunter than ever, he now saw that no one comes out a winner in a game with Vader. He knew it the moment Greta last looked at him in such horror and disgust.

And now, he understood why the hunt had recently lost its lustre: Each time he brought down his targets, it was her look he would see on their faces, reminding him not of his success as a bounty hunter, but only of his failure – as a man.

The thought bothered him – that he should regret losing a part of himself that made him weak. Had not his obedience to Vader made him a better hunter? He stared at the expanse of space before him, unsure of what to think.

As if the universe was listening, a memory from his past answered. It was a conversation he had with an old Jedi, whom he had captured earlier in his career. Fett was young then, only a few years in his trade. It was this memory that taught him to never converse with the prisoners.

The old man had entered the holding cell when he spoke, the words resonating in mind only: ""You seek to destroy yourself, son."

In a flash, Fett had his blaster pressed against the Jedi's neck. "Enter my mind again, and I _will_ kill you."

The man opened his mouth: "I tell you for your own good."

Fett loosened his grip on the man's collar. Holstering his blaster, he replied, "I make my own destiny."

The old man shook his head gravely. "That is where you are wrong.

"Save me your Jedi philosophy. I've heard it all before."

"You have heard, but you don't understand. The universe is a complicated place, much like a tangled web. And everyone and everything in it are inextricably intertwined. You think you are exempt from this – that you are outside this construct of reality? Not so. You must accept your intrinsic nature. This, you cannot change."

"I can become better than I am."

"If you mean 'better' in terms of becoming who you are not, you are sadly mistaken. If you wish to be better than you are, seek good for others, not for yourself. Seek to be a better _man_. Without this, you will be no better than a machine with no soul and no depth. Do you really want this?"

The question hung in the air in silence before the young Fett spoke evasively: "The frailty of humankind is its reliance on emotions which are directly opposed to the reliability of logic and reason. Feelings change. Facts do not."

The Jedi stroked his beard. "I see. You see emotions as a stain you need to blot out. You see them as being uniquely separate from your intrinsic self – the man you were meant to be."

"Precisely."

"Hm." The Jedi muttered. "Then you are sadly mistaken. Choose your path carefully, son. But I fear you will only learn the hard way. You will have to suffer the consequences of your logic in action before you see how important feelings really are. Only then you will understand. Regret is a powerful emotion."

The words of the old Jedi echoed in Fett's mind as he replayed the image of Greta's face in the dream once more. Looking into the vacuous depths of space, he heard a quiet desire murmur in his heart_: I want her to forgive me._

He could have easily ignored this voice, as he had many times before. Yet for the first time, logic coincided with his emotions: he would defy Vader and take Greta back.

But first, he had to finish his current job. With Han Solo's frozen body in his cargo bay, he would deliver it to Jabba. Then, he would set out to find the one he had betrayed.


	8. Breaking Greta

_Dear readers,_

_I'm sorry it's taken me so long to update this story. I've been meaning to for the last few months, but have had a difficult time writing this chapter. Action sequences – and torture – are not easy subjects to grapple or even imagine, so I've been letting it stew for a while. Anyhow, rest assured that I do intend on finishing this story – and that I appreciate every review I've received. They help motivate me to keep going! So thanks. Hopefully it won't be long till I get the next chapter up. Thanks for your patience!  
_

_Apokoliptik_

* * *

There was a faint hum in the darkness. It filled the air and crept out of the walls and floor. And though it was barely audible, it could not be ignored.

Greta was lying on the floor of her cell in complete darkness. Even in her semi-consciousness, she heard the hum - the deep pulsing of the Deathstar's core. It was the only thing she noticed over the throbbing in her head and the warm stickiness gluing her face to the floor. Whatever they had injected her with had begun coursing through her veins, and she could feel, along with the hum, the quickening of her heart and the spasming of her muscles throughout her body.

These were only the most recent experiments she was subjected to. Since being sent to the Imperial labs, Greta had been given a regular dose of inhibitors, adrenaline and powerful stimulants injected into her cerebellum, making her sensory perception and motor control keen and precise. Another slew of needles affected her conscious and emotional processes in attempt to control her will.

In the early days, Greta resisted with passion. But as the months went by, her inner voice began to quieten, and other voices that told her how she would have revenge on Boba Fett, grew louder.

From the beginning of her internment, Vader oversaw that the trauma the labs would inflict on her would take advantage of Fett's betrayal. It was satisfying to see how many prisoners he had been able to manipulate using their hatred. It proved him right and confirmed the superiority of the dark side over the weak, humanistic philosophy of the Jedis.

The hum of the Deathstar seemed to ebb away as her conscious slipped farther into the darkness. It could have been minutes or hours, but with her now-enhanced hearing, she snapped to attention – and to the pain in her body – when she heard traces of distant footsteps heading her way. Slowly, she grew aware that she could see in the dark. First, she noticed the ceiling: she could see the striations and cracks. Sitting up, her head swam, but she could see the pool of blood she had been lying in, glistening from the shred of light coming from beneath the cell door. She frowned, then felt a strange numbness on the left side of her face. Reaching up, she felt a cold, metal object directly over her eye. She prodded her face, trying to remove the object. Doing so only caused her pain, like she was tearing out her own eye. In horror, she realized that this _was_ her eye.

In the months as she grew complacent, Greta's mind had begun to shut down. But this – this violation – brought her back to her senses. As the footsteps grew louder, she smelled the one she hated so intensely. And she was not going to let him get away with hurting her anymore.

The cell door opened. She was already on him, knocking him back with a series of hard blows. With each hit she delivered, the stronger she felt. She felt the electrifying surge of hate each time she landed a blow. The voices in her head urged her on, driving her movements into instinct. No more did her muscles spasm; instead, they locked and released with clockwork precision for every movement. The man, though clad in armour, staggered back, but did not make an effort of fighting back.

Finally, Greta knocked the man to the ground, his armour clanging on the steel floor. She pinned him to the floor with her hands around his neck.

"Kill me," said the man. "Do it."

Greta looked at him in silence. Something deep within was urging her on. A dark, compulsive rage coursed through her veins. But something inside intervened. Her own voice was unequivocal: _Don't do it._

"Fuck you," she growled. "I'll never be like you." Then, a searing pain in her side. He had got between her ribs with a vibroblade, pushed in hard and twisted. Now free from her iron grip, her enemy lifted his helmeted head, just enough for her to see herself in his T-shaped visor. She hated what she saw – the bionic eye, her bloodthirsty expression, her sunken features. Her rage subsided as the pain quickly overtook her senses.

"If you don't kill me," he mocked, now standing over her crumpled form. "I will eventually kill you."

Greta spat the blood from her mouth at his feet. "I will never forgive you. I will hate you for the rest of my life. But I cannot kill you."

"Your hate means nothing," he replied, "without the desire to kill." He yanked her to her feet by the hair. "Your next session awaits."

* * *

Greta's anger today _was _admirable. She had thrown herself into fighting him harder than he'd ever seen. He was quite satisfied with himself. But there was still a long way to go. There was still too much of the original Greta behind the rage. So, he had chained her up to the ceiling with electroshock nodes placed all over her body.

"Do you know why I do this to you, Greta?" he had asked, waving the trigger in front of her face. She looked away.

"I never loved you. Why would I?" His T-shaped visor leaned closer to her face. "Look at yourself."

Greta had been spent from the previous rush of adrenaline and the knife wound in her side. She would not lift her head to look, but he had grabbed her by the jaw, forcing at his visor. "You see this worthless piece of shit? She's a coward. She won't defend herself by killing the man who betrayed her. This is how you treat worthless shit."

He thrust her head away, letting her go. Then, searing pain. Blinding light. Her body spasmed under the electroshock. Then off. She hung limply from the ceiling.

"Say it," his voice echoed in her ear. "Say, 'I will kill you.' "

Greta numbly had shook her head. He threw the switch again . . .

In his quarters, after returning an unconscious Greta back to her cell, the man removed his helmet and smiled. _Boba Fett should be so lucky if he looked like this,_ he thought, running a hand across his shaven head, looking at himself in the mirror. Ascii, as the man was called, was one of the Empire's most ruthless agents who tortured and manipulated lab subjects for military research. What made him so terrifyingly effective was that he studied his subjects' pasts to find ways to completely unhinge their mental balance. When studying Greta's file, he found her past, and her relationship to Boba Fett, intriguing. It was then he decided he would conduct his tests under the guise of Boba Fett, donning an exact replica of his armour.

The results had been mixed. Harnessing Greta's anger had been easy; destroying her self-will was not. It was Vader's orders that her anger be the only thing left of her, but for many months, she resisted, attempting to preserve her sense of right and wrong. Today, she was so close to losing all of it. Soon, he would make her kill, even if it killed her in the process.


	9. The palace never sleeps

_Hello again,_

_Thanks again for the reviews! I really want to get this story finished, so I'm trucking through it the best I can. Hopefully, you'll find out what happens between Greta and Boba Fett at the end of all this . . . Enjoy!_

* * *

Jabba was thrilled to see Solo's frozen, agonized face when Boba Fett presented him the smuggler's carbonite form. Slurping on live beetles the size of a human fist, Jabba erupted in a guttural laughter.

"At last, Han Solo! I told you I would have the last word, you cowardly cheat!" said the worm in Huttese. He crunched down on the beetle in his mouth. Its guts dribbled down his enormous lips. "Bring him closer. I want to see every detail of his last moments."

Boba Fett stepped forward, and the slab followed. After a few punches into a remote, Fett flipped the carbonite upright, so that Solo's distorted face came face-to-face with the Hutt.

Jabba examined Solo's face with his big, watery eyes. "Yes. Very nice. Very agonizing.

Jabba turned to Boba Fett who was standing silently with blaster rifle held across his arms. "His expression is satisfactorily mortifying. Tell me, Fett. Did Solo scream as he froze? I'd like to think he was whimpering like the coward he is."

Boba Fett generally disliked discussing the suffering of his targets with his employers and embellishing stories, even if it potentially increased the amount of credits he would receive. It wasn't in his nature, nor did he think the difficult bounties he fulfilled were in need of embellishment. Obstinately, he replied, "There was nothing."

Jabba scowled at this dry response. "At least let me imagine."

"You know better than to ask _me_," Fett replied, tersely.

"True. Your accomplishments speak for themselves, correct?"

Fett nodded.

Jabba scoffed. "No matter. The look on Solo's face tells me the horror and pain he experienced. I will take great pleasure at the seeing his suffering forever preserved in carbonite." He laughed again, spitting out the beetle shell. He gestured with his tail while stuffing his face with fresh beetle. "Hang the cur on the wall. He'll be a fine warning to anyone thinking of crossing Jabba the Hutt!"

The Gamorrean guards promptly took the carbonite and began hoisting the slab in place.

Turning to Fett, Jabba eyed the bounty hunter, standing silently before him. "It's been a long time, Fett. I have not seen you here in many moons. Ever since . . ."

Fett's body visibly tightened like recoiled muscle ready to act. Remembering his part of their deal, Jabba ordered his servants out of the chamber. He knew better than to bring up a confidential agreement with a lethal bounty hunter in public.

The Hutt continued. ". . . ever since you paid me out to take my slave-mechanic. The girl."

"I've been busy."

"I should not have let you take her. I could have made more money long-term with the credits you paid me for her protection."

"You would risk your head for disobliging Vader's wishes."

"Oh, I know. But I thought you would pay her out – for yourself."

"I have no interest in taking a slave."

The Hutt eyed him again, recalling the reason Fett had told him years ago. He had told him that Greta was a good mechanic; the only one he would trust with his ship. Of course this was partially a lie t, but the Hutt wasn't going to challenge one of the most dangerous men in the galaxy.

Jabba decided it was unwise to continue on this subject of the female mechanic and got down to his point. "What of the little one? Your next payment for her safety is due. Will you continue to protect her now that the mechanic is gone?" The Hutt licked his lips – the tell-tale sign he was lusting after something. If he couldn't keep Greta, he could at least secure the long-term protection payout for this worthless slave. It didn't matter to him what Fett wanted to protect the little twerp for; he imagined the bounty hunter had lewd habits he kept private. To the Hutt, money was money, no matter how perverse the request. It only now irked him that he had not had Fett's idea first; this young one would make him a tantalizing consort.

Of course, Fett had only paid protection for Lethia as a service to Greta, intending to ensure their safety while he was away fulfilling his bounties. And now, since he had every intention of finding Greta, he saw that Lethia's safety was on his shoulders if he ever hoped to obtain Greta's forgiveness.

"Another year, for now," Fett answered. He pulled up a visual of his account through his helmet and transferred the amount into Jabba's. "Done. You know my conditions."

"Not a hair," answered the Hutt. He slurped liquor from a nearby cistern. Feeling a little brazen from the drug, he added, "She's a fierce little thing. She'd be better as a dancer – of the more provocative type."

The Hutt's lust after a 15-year-old girl disgusted Fett. "Not. A. Hair," he hissed.

Getting his message, the Hutt backed off. "Only a joke, master Fett."

Tired of the slug's banter, Fett desired only to change the subject and close his deal with the Hutt. "The protection payment is done. We discuss _my_ payment. Now."

Jabba burped after washing down beetle bits with more liquor. Fett was more than thankful he had just changed the air filters in his helmet; his noxious fumes detector was off the charts.

"Yes, yes. Always business. Never one for chit-chat," said the Hutt with a false sigh. "I offered one hundred thousand credits . . . "

Before the Hutt could finish, Boba Fett was on him, blaster rifle butted right against the slug's head. As much as the Hutt's parasite-ridden body disgusted him, Fett had no qualms about blowing off his head.

"You said a quarter million," Fett growled through the visor, pushing the rifle harder against the slug's jelly-like head.

Pressing a button, the Hutt hailed Bib Fortuna, who skulked back into the chamber, taken aback by the scene before him: Boba Fett standing on the Hutt's platform, with one foot on his slimy chest and a rifle held to his head.

"Transfer a quarter million credits," Jabba said woodenly. Bib looked back and forth in confusion as the Hutt grew agitated. "Do it - _now_!"

The Twi'lek hastily punched buttons on his datapad, then made a grimace at Fett, baring his sharp, pointed teeth.

"Credits transferred," he hissed.

Boba Fett checked his account through his visor monitor, which confirmed the transfer. He released the Hutt, wiping his boot off the edge of the platform. "Very stupid," he said.

The Hutt's chest was heaving as he attempted to remain nonchalant about what just happened. "My mistake," he coughed uneasily.

Fett did not reply and turned to leave. But before he disappeared down the hall, Fett's visor angled back toward the slug. In a low, furious voice, he said, "Never try that again."

* * *

While contemplating his meeting with Jabba, Fett returned to the shipyard where he and Greta once spent time together. Nightfall had come, and the shipyard was deserted. It was the perfect time to perform any maintenance on his ship and, coincidentally, the time when he used to meet Greta here. It was abandoned, save for the mysterious new bounty hunter who brought Chewbacca in earlier that day. He scurried off at the sight of Boba Fett in the direction of the audience chamber. Glad to have the shipyard to himself, he looked upon his Slave II, dented and scratched as badly as his helmet. Being in this shipyard for the first time since he took Greta away, he half expected to see her dark brown hair weaving through shipments, crates and ship parts. Something deep within ached. He had destroyed what they had; and now he had no one who knew him as well as she did. Wasn't that what he wanted? The invulnerability of being unknowable?

A slight rustle behind him interrupted his thoughts. He turned quickly, and was taken off guard by a figure in white charging him.

Lethia.

His reflexes were beyond fast, but he underestimated her. Always knowing her to be Greta's tag-along friend, he never suspected her physical capabilities. Before he knew it, the girl had found the chink in his armor, nailing him between the ribs with a small blade. It was nothing too serious, but blood ran slowly from the wound. Quickly, she pulled it out, ready to aim for his neck.

Faster than anything she had seen, he caught Lethia's hand and gripped it so tight, she let go of the knife.

She was so small for her age that Fett could hold her off the ground with one hand. "Let go," she snarled, as she thrashed in his grip. "Let me go, you asshole!"

Gently, he set her down, but kept her hands firmly in his grip. "Settle down," he said firmly, but quietly.

"So you're back to find someone else to deceive and betray, right? Maybe this time a Twi'lek dancer, or even one of the sex slaves . . ."

Fett cut her off. "That is not how I operate."

"That's what you did to Greta."

"There are things in this galaxy you do not understand."

"Bullshit," she spat. "I've lived enough of a shitty life to know what goes on this galaxy. You betrayed Greta. That's the long and short of it. Don't give me some lame excuse that you did what you did because the world is a complicated place."

Fett, not being a man of many words, found her flurry of accusations difficult to contend with. He was a man of action, and he resisted wanting to thrust her aside and walking away. Instead, he managed to say, rather uncomfortably, "I know what I have done." His visor moved menacingly close to her as she watched her own wide-eyed expression in the reflection. "Stay out of it."

Lethia pursed her lips. "I won't. She was my friend." Her resolve broke, and small tears rolled down her pale face. "She was yours, too."

Boba Fett looked at her for a moment, then nodded slightly. "Yes. She was."

Lethia was still at this moment, looking at the bounty hunter she had trusted her friend with. It was hard to tell if he was being sincere, but then – Boba Fett never said anything he didn't mean.

"Then why did you betray her? She's been sent to Imperial labs – for a fate worse than death. How could you?"

Turning his back to her, Fett said nothing. What he felt was too complex for him to explain. Guilt, remorse, shame were surfacing faster than he could handle. At this moment, for once in his life, he found himself unable to act. He could not answer.

"You coward," she whispered, more tears wetting her cheeks. Under normal circumstances, Boba Fett would never had let anyone get away with accusing him of weakness, but here, he grudgingly felt the burning truth of the girl's words. From behind the mask, his lips pursed in a grim line in his attempt to restrain his emotions. He was about to answer when a commotion erupted from the audience chamber, echoing through the palace tunnels. Princess Leia had been discovered.

Boba Fett and Lethia exchanged glances. The bounty hunter who had delivered with Chewbacca – they understood what had happened. Seeing that his recently delivered merchandise would be again the centre of the palace's discussion, he turned to ensure the safety of his bounty. But before he left, Lethia audaciously grabbed his arm. Holding him firmly and looking directly into his shielded gaze, Lethia showed no fear; only the hard truth of her message:

"She loved you, Boba Fett. And you failed her."


	10. Distant memories and harsh realities

_Hello again,_

_Thanks for reading! As I promised, I'm actively trying to close up their story so here's the next installment. Please be warned that this chapter contains some violent and disturbing images (even just suggested at). Aside from this, enjoy!_

It had been three months in the Imperial labs when she was first introduced to _him_. That day, she had undergone a freezing test, where technicians submerged her in ice-cold water for several hours. She would have died if it weren't for the chemicals they had pumped into her to keep her blood from freezing and protecting her vitals from the frigid temperature. Deeming the experiment a success, the techs pulled her out, after which she lay on an examining table naked and semi-conscious. It was hard to make out what the techs were saying, but she did catch snippets of their conversation:

"Subject is alive. Core temperature: normal. Outer temperature is below freezing but the body is in perfect condition. She is one of the few to survive this."

A nasal voice added, "Her body has accepted the chlorozan. Not only can she withstand extreme cold, her muscles are responding to it. She has passed almost every physical test we have given her."

There was a pause. The other one spoke. "But not the mind-control."

"No. There are far too many signs of her will fighting it off. Lord Vader is aware of her condition. He has sent for our most efficient agent to change her cerebral pathways – by force.

At that moment, a hushed murmur swept the room. The doors of the lab opened, then silence. The techs had all disappeared.

Even before she knew all this had happened, she heard heavy footsteps coming toward her, the same that would announce his terrible presence in the months to come. Greta, unable to gather her wits about her, shivered on the table in a rigid mass. The next thing she knew, she was being pulled up by her hair (she hardly even felt it as her hair ripped out in clumps) – and looking blurredly at a familiar T-shaped visor. Even in her paralyzed state, she let out a discernible gasp as she recognized him.

But before she could muster the energy to say anything, he savagely turned her around and pushed her face-down on the table. The cold steel greeted her face with blinding force. She hardly knew what was happening until he had her bent over the table as he pressed up against her from behind. Panicking, she tried to kick him away, but she had no control. She was helpless, and completely at his mercy as she heard him undoing his codpiece, and felt his gloved hands slide between her thighs.

"Your training begins."

This was the first time, among many, that she would learn to truly hate this Boba Fett.

* * *

Greta tried not to let her mind wander to these thoughts, but something within her was determined not to believe that whoever was behind this mask was not really Boba Fett, despite his claims. It seemed too convenient that in their failed attempts to control her mind, Boba Fett should show up, only to brutally violate her. And although she could not be sure of who he really was after his betrayal, her instincts told her that the Imperials were using his image to drive her over the edge.

It almost worked. The first few months after he reintroduced himself into her life, she almost let him kill her. She wanted to die so badly. But the man disguised as Boba Fett was so unlike the man she knew for seven years. The last and only time Boba Fett was cruel to her, he seemed conflicted; more angry with himself than with her, and in retrospect, never nearly this brutal. This Boba Fett revelled in violence; it gave him such perverted pleasure to draw her blood.

Secretly, all of the Imperials' experiments had backfired. Though they awaited Greta's killing instinct to emerge, they were unaware that she was planning an escape. If she had no control over the body-enhancing procedures and training they subjected her to, she had to use these as her only weapons, and fight hard to keep her mind intact. For now, she had to keep acting like she believed this imposter's ruse until the right time. She hadn't decided if she would kill him. She didn't like this idea, even if he deserved it a thousand times over; but she didn't want to become like _them_ – even if it meant denying herself of vengeance.

At present, she was hooked up to the electroshock unit, with "Boba Fett" telling her more of his lies. But now that the chlorozan compound had successfully fused itself into her cell structure, the electricity didn't seem to hurt her as much anymore; it actually seemed to stimulate her muscles.

Of course, the shock therapy still affected her mind and she tried her best to mimic the same pain response she once exhibited; now she struggled to stay awake during the numbing electric hum coursing between her ears. It was weird how the electroshock now induced her into a dreamlike state, possibly the chlorozan protecting her brain from overloading. Today, her dreams brought her back to a not-so-long ago memory, of the time she was recovering from cave blindness:

. . . Greta was sitting upright in a bed with blindfolds on, waiting for her eyes to heal after receiving the last of the solar treatments on Boba Fett's ship. She had never spent time in his sickbay, nor so long on his ship. Despite his reputation, Greta felt relief at being on here, away from the commotion of the palace, its sickness and sounds of death. It was quiet here and for the first time in years, she slept undisturbed.

Suddenly, she felt the warmth of a hand on her face until she realized it was real. She awoke slowly, understanding more clearly that someone was there. The hands were ungloved.

Her throat was dry when she said his name. The hands paused. Then the familiar, filtered voice. "Yes."

He was now lifting the blindfold off her eyes and wiping the dried tears from her lashes. His hands were on her face again, gently prying her eyelids open. It would take a few more days for the treatment to take effect, but for now, she was still blind. She could only feel his bare hands touching her eyes and the skin around them, checking to see her progress.

"I want to thank you," she began, as he continued to examine, "for helping me."

"You don't need to thank me," he replied.

"Well . . . I want to," she said, revealing a sweet smile. "So, thank you – for what it's worth."

There was a pause as he thought over this. In his mind, he reasoned that he was ensuring the maintenance of his ship, and therefore, the success of his career. He didn't want to admit – even to himself – that he didn't' want her thrown to the rancor because he was emotionally involved. But her thanks had secretly made him proud, not for his own ability to help her, but because he had made her smile. It occurred to him then how much he liked that smile, especially when it was directed at him.

"You're . . . welcome," he said slowly, quietly. His hand, which had rested on her face during these thoughts, absent-mindedly reached across her check, cupping her face more fully into his palm. The move surprised Greta as she felt the warmth of his hand radiating over her face and his fingers lightly resting behind her ear.

Had her usual cautiousness not been inhibited by the painkillers in her system, she would not have reached up to touch his hand, as intimate as this gesture was. In turn, Fett would have instantly removed it from her touch – had he not found himself wanting this as much as she.

Greta slowly explored the back of his hand, hardly believing she was touching his skin – the first evidence of his humanity she had ever experienced. As her thumb traced over his skin, his hand flinched slightly, but stayed. Fett was somewhat unprepared for his response to her touch. Little did she know, the softness of her hand stroking his own had awakened a deep yearning in his body. Aware of this, he began to withdraw his hand from beneath hers. Surprisingly, Greta held on.

"Stay with me," she said impulsively, sucking in a breath, surprised at her own boldness.

There was a pause. Greta was afraid she had pushed too far. Were those goosebumps she felt on the back of his hand? She had challenged a boundary that had been safely maintained between them. Life had gone on the same for the last seven years, during which they requested only practical advice from each other and initiated indirect conversations to see how the other was doing. Now, she had vocalized an emotional desire of wanting – him.

In truth, Fett felt conflicted about his own desires. On one hand, he wanted to keep things simple, no strings attached, no liabilities. On the other hand, he wanted her, too.

"I have work to do," he answered brusquely. His hand slipped quickly out of hers, and she heard the rustling sound of cloth. He was putting his gloves back on, then he left the room.

* * *

The ending of that memory bade Greta wake from the electroshock, feeling the heavy-hearted rejection she felt when he withdrew his hand from her. The lingering feelings were only confused by the long months of abuse she suffered under a man claiming to be him. Her memories of the real Boba Fett before his betrayal vastly contrasted with the man who had betrayed her, _and_ this man who enjoyed hurting her. She was indeed very confused, unsure of what to do with the feelings attached to the past.

Awaking, her eyes began to focus on her tormentor. The one who called himself Boba Fett was still talking. He talked more than the real Boba Fett ever did. And, gods, did she want him to shut up.

The electricity shut off, and this Boba Fett stalked over to her, pulling her head back by her now short-cropped hair. "Falling asleep, are we? You want more juice? I'll give it to you."

He began unbuttoning his pants. Greta looked wearily at him, stalling with her well-practiced blank stare. What she was really thinking, was how she was going to make him regret ever laying his hands on her. Parts of her conscience told her not to do it; that she would only fulfill what they wanted of her. Another part cried out for vengeance, for the evil that had been done to her. And things were different today. She could feel the chlorozan reacting with the electricity. Her senses were sharper somehow; her muscles desperate to react. Everything in her body told her she could not stand this anymore. She made a decision.

"C'mere, big boy," she slurred.

Ascii cocked his head. "So you _want_ this now?" He laughed within the helmet, positioning in front of her. "I'll give it to you."

And without even seeing her move, Greta broke the confines of the chair, and kneed her assailant with wicked force in the crotch. He might have puked his balls out, except he didn't. He was on the floor, grabbing between his legs and swearing profusely. Standing over him with eyes clear and every muscle fibre twitching, she pinned him down with her foot to his chest and grabbed his vibroblade. "Yeah, I want it. I want to see you eat it."

Carving up a sausage and feeding it to its owner was never more fun than this.


	11. Sarlaac dreams

_Again, many thanks for the reviews. Of course, more are welcome! _

_This chapter __was inspired by a SW short story that I read a long time ago. Can you guess which one? (You have to read to the end to see). The premise of this chapter – mainly the setup of the Sarlacc situation and other elements – are that author's ideas. Also, I don't follow the newest SW films' canon when it comes to Boba Fett's past. Am not a fan of him being just another clone because he is supposed to be the one and only awesome Mandalorian. Anyhow, I like the idea that he's from an ancient, mostly extinct warrior culture, so let's play with that. Sorry, I'm SW old-school._

* * *

Pitch black dark. Boba Fett breathed shallowly, just barely conscious. Memories of a skirmish fluttered in and out of his mind. He saw the Hutt's sail barge in flames. Skywalker, Han Solo, a fall . . .

In the darkness, he saw something flickering in the distance. A glimmer of silver-blue flittered in the periphery until it shifted and changed into a familiar form. It reappeared closer, in full view, smiling sweetly.

_I'm so glad you're here, Boba, _the figure said. Her voice chimed like a thousand silvery bells. Boba Fett kept his gaze fixed on the woman, unsure of what he was seeing.

Fett hardly knew he was speaking when he heard himself whisper, "Greta?"

The figure continued to float closer, her eyes wide and smile growing wider. _Yes, Boba_. She bared her teeth.

"Have we died, Greta?" he asked.

The ghostly image floated until they were face-to-face. She peered at him with large, sad eyes._ Soon. _she said._ When this horrid life is finished, we can start over._ Tendrils of long hair framed her silvery skin and cascaded down her shoulders, covering her breasts. It was then he noticed she was naked.

Before he knew it, she was pressed up against him, but he felt no weight, no pressure. Just cool, moist air, like a mist. But he felt her fingers touch his face, run over his scars. Gods, she was beautiful.

His heart ached; his body responded with desire. Almost as though she could read his mind, she reached down and stroked his inner thigh, meandering her hands further toward his groin.

Her touch sent an electric charge surging through his body.

_You've loved me for such a long time, haven't you?_ she purred. The sound of her voice was different somehow – silky, distorted, like many voices in one

"Yes," he answered.

_You acted like you didn't._

"I have tried to deny all human emotion."

_You won't deny them now, __will you?_

Putting both hands on his face, she leaned in to kiss him. Every part of his body was throbbing now, desiring her desperately. He had never felt such overpowering emotions before, never felt so completely vulnerable as he did now. As he took her into his mouth, he tasted her cool, moist lips – and nearly lost every ounce of control he had built over the last thirty years.

But even as much as he yearned for Greta, he knew, deep within, that there was something wrong with all of this – something _very_ wrong – because it was all too perfect. Trying to break from the kiss, the figure only kissed harder, more aggressively, and pressed herself more firmly to his body.

Finally, he broke from her, growling, "This is not real. This is all a lie."

The figure stared for a moment, smile growing wider from ear to ear. Her mouth opened, then erupted in a deafening scream. Blinded by the sound, Fett shut his eyes, only to see images from the past – both good and bad – race before him. When he opened them, he no longer saw Greta's beautiful figure before him, but a rotting corpse, half eaten away by acid and dangling upright by long, slimy tentacles – hanging like a gruesome puppet.

Disgusted, he pushed it away; the tentacled corpse recoiled, disappearing into the darkness.

Silence.

Deep in the lightless depths of the Sarlacc, Boba Fett hung, his arms and legs swallowed up in the digestive wall of the great beast and secured by huge, wet tentacles. As he came to understand where he really was, he saw that he still had his helmet on. Quickly, he attempted to assess the situation using his carefully honed skills. His helmet had a long crack in the visor, which displayed distorted stats and several systems offline, including his jetpack.

_Damn_.

A quick scan indicated that his armour was slowly being dissolved by the acids in the tentacles holding him. Surprisingly, the scan also revealed that the acids had already eaten through the unarmoured areas of his flight suit – but he couldn't feel a thing, nor see it happening. He guessed that the Sarlacc was injecting an anesthetic that kept its victims calm while being digested alive for thousands of years. If this was the case, he had to act fast before the anesthetic drugged him into compliance.

Then, a strange noise like a cloud of winged insects emerged from the darkness. As it grew louder, he detected whispers – multiple voices, speaking fast and hushed. Then, he began to make out words. Most, he did not understand, but some spoke Basic. Others spoke what sounded like ancient, long-forgotten languages. Though he could see nothing, the voices rose from all around.

_We thought it would make you happy__, _a chorus of silvery voices sounded. _The girl._

"Who are you?" he demanded. "_What_ are you?"

We _are the Sarlacc_, the voices replied. _The collective consciousness of all those we have and are consuming. You are becoming part of us as we speak._

"You can't have me," Fett spat.

The walls around him began to convulse. The voices around him erupted in an eerie laugh. _You are in no position to say so_, it replied, tightening the tentacles around his body. _But aren't we lucky to have you "drop in" on us . . . Boba Fett._

"How do you know me?"

_The many sentients __we have consumed bear memories of you. Horrible memories. Accompanying them is fear and dread. As such, we want to keep you._

_You fascinate us_, the Sarlacc continued. The walls around him pulsed a little in excitement. The voices giggled. _Tell us: Does a man like you ever experience . . . fear?_

"What does it matter to you."

_Oh_, it said off-handedly, _It will be so fun to experience what you experience. The great, mysterious bounty hunter. So many of us want to know. _The tentacles twitched with delight. _To be so smug . . . so confident . . . so strong_.

Boba Fett was angry now, disgusted by the prospect of having a million consciousnesses invade his mind – the violation of everything he stood for.

Again, he repeated, slower than the first: "You. Can't. Have. Me."

The Sarlacc seemed to shrug. _Oh, but we already do. You don't need to worry, Master Fett. You only benefit from this arrangement, you know. We can give you everything you want. Make all of this very comfortable and pleasing to you._

"I don't want your filthy tentacles on me," he spat.

_Too late_, the Sarlacc replied ruefully. _We've already given you a taste. We know you want more._

Boba hung in the darkness in silence, thinking of the vision of Greta. "How did you know about her? You're a telepath?"

The Sarlacc chuckled. _Some of us were. Telepaths, mind-readers, Jedi, Sith, whatever you call them. Though after years of being the Sarlacc, our abilities have become somewhat diminished. Our apologies, Master Fett. _

"Get out of my head," he growled.

_Ah – but there's still __so much to see. And we've already seen Greta. She certainly is beautiful; delightfully charming. No wonder your feelings for her are so deep, so warm. We want to have them; to bathe in them. Soak them up. You will not deny us this pleasure, Boba Fett?_

"Do you always do this?"

_Do what, dear Fett?_

"Play with your food."

The Sarlacc chuckled. The walls shook again. _We don't eat like you do. It's more akin to_ – _what do you call it?_ –

"_foreplay_."

Fett cursed under his breath, running through the possibilities of escape – and the most vicious ways to destroy this bloody creature. There was a silence as the Sarlacc awaited his response. Finally, it spoke, but with a different voice.

It sounded like a woman – a very old woman – and her voice was quiet and raspy. _I remain the strongest telepath_, she said. _An old Sith thrown into the Sarlacc several hundred years ago. I cannot remember my name, but I can tell you that I have been here a very long time. And I remember your kind. The Mandalorians. _

"What of my people?" Fett growled, almost defensively. The name of his kind stung; most of them were dead – made extinct by an ancient war – and now only he and a handful of others remained as the last descendants.

_They were warriors, like you. Fierce. Relentless. Loyal__ to your cause. You are an interesting and rare specimen, bounty hunter. Human, Mandalorian, solely devoted to your craft. You feel, but control your emotions with unparalleled skill, quite unseen among non-Force sensitives. _

"Tell me something I _don't_ know, woman," Fett growled.

_You've had a painful past. I sense much anger, loss, rage. . . all simmering beneath a protective veneer of cold brutality. You decided you'd never be hurt again, if you became the aggressor – the victor – in all circumstances. _

_But the Mandalore – your people – they were lethal warriors. They never denied their emotions. No – the ones I knew, they trusted their emotions as much as they trusted their instincts. To them, their feelings were an integral part of themselves and skill, though they kept them well-guarded and private. _

"I did not know them," Fett confessed. "I was only taught their war arts, nothing else."

_Did you know, then, that not only did the Man__dalorian people fight fiercely, they loved fiercely? They were monogamous; loyal to their mates for life. They would _die_ for each other._

Boba Fett shifted in his armour. "I remember . . . a little." It was not easy for him to hear of his long-lost heritage, or think of his family. Having been orphaned at a young age, he remembered only the relentless training he endured as a boy, under his father's keen watch, and the distant memory of his mother's warm smile. It had been years since he thought about his parents, but the Sarlacc, with its tranquilizing fluids, tapped into his nervous system, forcing open the floodgates of memory. Yes - he remembered them. He remembered their loyalty to each other; their dedication. They were not affectionate people, but their bond was unspoken. He remembered how their eyes revealed their deep love for each other.

Unknown to Boba Fett, the Sarlacc had attached itself with a neurostimulating tentacle before he had regained consciousness. Tapping into his spinal cord, the Sarlacc was squeezing whatever emotion it could from the hunter, pulling them out, raw and unfiltered. It was then a great pang seized Boba Fett as memories he had long forgotten raced before his eyes. He had spent a lifetime trying to forget everything; forget that his mother and father were murdered before his very eyes.

The old woman spoke again. _Did you not want what your parents had? The kind of subtle love they had for each other? _

"You will not speak of them," he commanded quickly, afraid of betraying the rising emotions in his chest. But before he knew it, the grief he had suppressed his entire life had seized him, body and soul. The force of his emotions literally knocked the breath out of him.

Fett hung in the darkness in a state of shock and panic, unable to breathe – and shaking. He saw his parents being murdered once again, lying in a pool of their own blood

_T__heir deaths left you alone, vulnerable, drowning with grief. You swore off your humanity then, to wash yourself clean of your weakness . . . your guilt in their deaths. _

Fett struggled to answer as intense emotions wracked his body. "N-n-no. It was not my fault."

_True. The Pangean crimelord killed them. But y__ou could not save them. You were not strong enough. Too emotional. _

The guilt washed over Fett so viscerally, his body spasmed under the intensity. Yes, he remembered being so young, so vulnerable. He hated himself for his weakness and vowed that he would never lose again. Grief consumed him, and borne out of this was an unquenchable thirst for power. And this meant denying himself of all feeling, attachments and trust.

Then, the tentacles loosened and all became quiet and still. The intensity of emotion Fett experienced began to fade, leaving him exhausted and spent.

She spoke again. _You denied yourself of feeling for so long, Fett. I see you for what you are. The boy you were, fighting and scrounging for survival, steeling yourself against the harsh world before you. That is, until you met _her._ Until you saw her working tirelessly in the Hutt's shipyard. You recognized yourself in her devotion to her craft; in her attempt to distract herself from the painful memories threatening to overcome her. Like you, she had watched her father killed and forced to survive with the lot given to her. True, she is not as strong as you, not nearly as capable. But what you saw in her was not simply her pain, but her ability to give generously to those she loved. Her fullness reflected back to you your own forsaken emptiness. _

_I want to help waken you from your emotional slumber, Fett. Simply think of the past, and let me do the rest. _The tentacle attached to the base of his skull gripped his spinal column once more. Again, memories from the past – the palace – began to resurface before his eyes.

_Fett was watching Greta outside, on an abandoned observation deck atop Jabba's palace overlooking the Dune Sea. He immediately recognized the memory: It had taken place a number of years since they met, before the cave blindness incident. He remembered this keenly, as it was the first time he had shared anything personal about himself with her. _

_That night, he could not find her in the shipyard. He found her here, watching the setting of the twin suns under the twilight sky. She was watching something from a holocube in her palm. _

_A small, glowing figure projected from it, speaking._ _"There is unrest in the galaxy, Greta. I make this recording for you in case we get separated. The voice was hushed, with notes of desperation. The sound of blasterfire could be heard in the background. "If I don't make it, please don't be angry with me, or yourself. You'll need to move on; find others you can trust." _

_There was fear in the man's eyes, made even more intense by his love for his daughter. The blasterfire got louder. "No matter what happens, know that I'll always love you."_

_The holocube came to the end of the recording. Her father's face froze in tableau. Reaching out to the image, __Greta tried to touch him as tears rolled down her face. "Dad" she whispered. "– I'm so alone."_

_Greta sat in silence, contemplating the past as Fett watched. It was the first time in many years that he felt any sort of empathy for another sentient. But he felt, when he saw the longing in her eyes, an understanding of the same kind of loss he had experienced long ago._

"_You are not entirely alone," he said slowly, startling her and surprising himself. Greta looked up, her brown eyes looking at him large and nervous. Immediately, she blushed, feeling ashamed for unwittingly revealing her intimate feelings before the bounty hunter. _

"_What do you mean?" she asked, quietly. Her embarrassment manifested itself as fear in her body language. She shrank away from him and was unable to meet his visor. It was strange, then, when Boba Fett noticed her fear. She had never been afraid of him; and it unsettled him to realize how much he did _not_ want her to be afraid of him._

"_There are others who share your . . . sentiments," he replied. He let out a breath, hardly audible from behind the helmet. He looked over at Greta, who was looking at him quizzically with the same penetrating look that somehow made him reveal more about himself than he allowed himself to do – ever. This same look was begging him to be vulnerable with her, and gods – damn it all – did it ever work._

"_I, too, lost my father at a young age," he added. _

_There was a silence between them as both parties considered the monumental step they had taken, no matter how small it seemed. _

_Greta was the first to speak. "I'm sorry," she said. Then bravely, she asked, "And your mother?"_

_Fett cleared his throat. "Also perished. Both of them murdered. Before my eyes."_

_Greta's eyes filled with understanding and sympathy. "How awful."_

_Not being accustomed to being pitied, Boba Fett quickly deflected. "The galaxy is an unforgiving place. You move on, you survive," he said, coldly._

"_But it seems fate dealt you a fortunate hand," she replied thoughtfully." You've become very successful in your trade. There must be some solace in this?"_

_Her words struck a sore point in Boba Fett. His parents were staunch followers of the Mandalorian way, warriors who believed in the integrity of their ancient war arts. They regarded those who used these skills for bounty hunting with disdain. Not wanting to discuss this detail, Fett only repeated his words again. "You do what it takes to survive." _

"_I suppose. I've tried to keep out of trouble and out of sight. I do my work and make no fuss. But, unlike so many who end up here, I have survived this palace much longer than anticipated."_

"_You are . . . ," he paused, "very good at what you do."_

_A smile and a blush slowly spread across Greta's face as she received his compliment._

"_Your father taught you well," he continued. _

_Greta's smile faded as her thoughts wandered back to her father. "It wasn't for this kind of life that he taught me. It would have killed him to see me live like this. He intended for me to have a good life – a free life. And what have I to show for it? A prisoner in a filthy crime hub, guardianship of a strong-headed girl, and no hope for the future." _

_Fett moved, closing in the distance between them until they were only a foot apart. "He wanted you to survive. You have done what you could with your lot," he said, not harshly. He was so close, she heard the nuances of his true voice past the metallic hiss of his helmet mic: rough, deep, yet surprisingly warm. Then, moving a segment of hair from her damp face, he added, "He would have been proud of you."_

_Greta could only stare at her own reflection in his visor, unsure of what to make of all of this. Fett remembered the smile that crept across__ her lips as she allowed herself to receive his compliment._

"_Thank you," she replied with a brightening light in her eyes. Her smile reached its full bloom, and the sight of it tugged deep beneath the Mandalorian armour. Her smile reminded him of so much lost – of home, family, of long-abandoned trust in others. _

Then, as suddenly as the memory came, it slipped away, returning Fett's consciousness to the darkness of the Sarlacc. But exiting the memory was painful and disorienting, like he had been hurled out of hyperdrive, cut open with his nerves exposed.

As he collected his thoughts, Fett thought of Greta's holocube, hidden away in his utility belt, strung on a new silver chain. Not long after this exchange on the observation deck, Fett had given Greta a chain so she could wear the holocube around her neck. That chain was broken now, snapped apart when he first captured her. It was the girl, Lethia, who gave him the cube after their last conversation in the palace. Before heading to join Jabba on the sail barge to see Solo and his friends thrown to the Sarlacc, Fett had found another chain and stashed away both in his belt until he would see Greta again.

Sensing his thoughts, the old woman spoke again. _You know how much she treasured that holocube – the memories within it. But do you know how much she treasured the chain you gave her? It gave her hope; it reminded her that someone in the present cared for her. _

_And yet, _she hissed_, you betrayed her._

Sick of the mind games and manipulation – and knowing he was losing precious time, Fett growled, "That's enough. You've invaded my privacy._ Violated_ my memories. What I do is for my own reasons only."

_Oh, but there is more. So many layers of emotions you feel for her. It's all quite fascinating, really. Do you know where she is, right now?_

"Yes."

_And do you know what kind of fate you have sent her?_

No answer.

_You have heard, but you do not really know what they do in these labs. Do you _want_ to know?_

There was only one thing Boba Fett did want to know. He bit his pride. "Tell me. Is she alive?"

The voice coughed in the darkness and answered enigmatically. _Yes, but not quite._

Boba Fett shook furiously in his confines. "What does that mean, hag? Tell me!"

_A__live, but not in spirit, _the old woman replied_. The girl you loved is different now. She can no longer be the same because of what you and they have done._

"What has happened to her?"

_Too horrible to tell. What men do to assert their power over women._

"No time for riddles, woman. Tell me."

_They have made her suffer, but she survives. Her body has changed. Her mind, fragile – but she tenaciously holds on to who she is. One thing I am certain: She hates you._

"Then she would never forgive me," he said, more to himself.

_Only she can answer that, Fett. __However. I do know, that no matter how much she hates you, she also cannot stop loving you._

Boba Fett remained silent, taking in the woman's words. Then, as though the anesthetic from the Sarlacc had loosened his speech, he muttered, "I would do anything to make it right."

The old woman drew in a quick breath. _Would you?_ she asked.

Growing increasingly weary, Fett answered easily, "Yes. I love her. I need to save her. I can't stay here."

It was then the Sith's voice suddenly grew soft, whispering quickly and with desperation. _Listen to me, Boba Fett. Now, listen to me. I tell you this, apart from the Sarlacc, bounty hunter. Though I am old and have lived too long as a disembodied consciousness in this beast, I can remember what it was like to love. The Sarlacc, it wants to drug you into passive compliance. The anesthetic is taking hold. You still have your jetpack. It was damaged during your fall but I can reconnect the broken wire. Use it. Use it before the Sarlacc hears me._

Boba Fett blinked. Inside the helmet, he saw the status reports waver before his eyes. To his astonishment, his jetpack was back online.

_If you want to sa__ve her, you must do so quickly. . . _The voice continued, rasping and growing silence.

The chatter of voices of the Sarlacc returned._ We think you've conversed long enough with the old Sith, Master Fett. We are growing hungry. We would like to taste more of you, to crack you open, like an egg._

The tentacle on his neck gripped again, and memories of the past flooded his mind once more before he could properly realign the jetpack. Fett began to feel the same strangling emotions of guilt, loss, love escalating. The tentacle gripped harder. The flood of emotions were so undistinguished, so torrential, that Fett's body shook against his confines.

The Sarlacc walls were pulsing now, the tentacles squeezing harder around his body. It sighed in delight._ Yes, Fett, _it moaned_. Your grief is delicious_.

Struggling to regain control, Boba Fett was held fast by the tentacles, feeling the essence of his very self being drained from him. "What are you doing to me?" he screamed.

_Tearing you open_, the Sarlacc replied, calmly. Whipping noises cracked in the darkness. The tentacles around him were thrashing. Concentrating fiercely, Boba Fett pulled up the commands on his visor to ignite the jetpack. He looked up, seeing a distant dot of light above him. He figured he had enough fuel; but how much strength he had left to execute the plan, he did not know.

With one command, the jetpack fired to life. The Sarlacc screamed, and the tentacles released him in shock. With his arm free, Fett grabbed his blaster and fired at the remaining tentacles threatening to tie him down. Then, at full power, Fett tore out of the great beast toward the distant opening at the top. Bursting through the air, he crash-landed into the sand with rib-cracking force.

All he could feel was burning.

* * *

_Hi again, and thanks for reading! I was going to continue this chapter, but it was getting way too long. I have to say that this was my favourite chapter to write. It came out much easier than the others. Anyhow, I would have written more, but I wanted to get on with the story. _

_The answer to the question at the top: Certain elements of Boba's predicament in the Sarlacc were inspired by J.D. Montgomery's short story, "A Barve Like That" from _Tales from Jabba's Palace_. The chilling character of the Sarlacc playing with its food, its ability to enter Fett's mind and the collective consciousness of the eaten are Mr. Montgomery's ideas, and not mine. The rest of the story is my own take. Hope you enjoyed it! Don't worry, I am truly working on getting the next chapter out._


	12. Acid and scars

_Sorry for the delay in the update! Things have been very busy here, and the creativity well has been feeling a bit dry. Anyhow, enjoy!_

* * *

The voice of the Sarlaac would haunt Boba Fett for the rest of his life. Even in his mostly unconscious state, he could still feel its presence rooted into his nerves, somehow weaving itself into the fabric of his soul. Though badly injured from his escape, Fett was still somewhat aware – amazingly – that someone had dragged him out of the blazing desert, and was somewhere cool and dark. From the smell, he knew it was the palace. What he did not know, however, was how long he had been like this, trapped between waking and dreaming.

Then, it happened. A stinging sensation pulled him fully back to reality. Something was touching his raw, exposed skin. Likely it was the other's hands – the salt in them – that burned his wounds, and his pride. How many days had he spent stripped of his armour and exposed for anyone to see?

Then, water wetted his lips; something moist cooling his hand. The pain grew sharper, more immediate. He opened his eyes.

A girl with pale skin and hair: Lethia, with pitcher in one hand, knife in the other. She pulled back slightly as she saw his eyes open. His eyes blurredly scanned the room, assessing the situation.

She had taken off his armour. That was the first thing he noticed. He saw it in a heap of singed and melted metal. Shaking from the pain of his broken body, Fett controlled himself from crying out. Even after the emotional plundering he was subjected to in the Sarlacc, Fett could still call on his old skill to control expressing weakness. Narrowing his eyes, Fett now locked his gaze on Lethia, who held a familiar blade in front of her.

Watching her with his own eyes, and not from behind the visor, he saw bright red skin around her shoulders and slight redness across her forehead and nose. It looked like she had been in the sun for the first time in years; and he guessed the sunburn was a result of a lengthy effort to get his much-larger frame onto a barge by herself.

"You wanted to kill me last time," he muttered between coughs. His lungs and throat were hoarse. "And now you save me."

"What makes you think I won't kill you now, the state you're in?"

"You've lost your chance. I'm awake."

Lethia stared at the man she had long wanted to kill for taking away the only family she had. It had only been several days since she pulled him out of the Dune Sea with acid-eaten armour caked with blood and sand – and had seen his face for the first time. The acid had eaten through to the skin on his neck so she had to pull off his helmet to access the area. It surprised her then that he was, despite her suspicions, truly human – with a number of scars lining his cold, stone-like face.

Finally, she put the knife down and, surprisingly, sat down on the cot where he was lying. "Yes, I had the opportunity to kill you. To leave you dying in the sand; to kill you there at your most vulnerable." Her eyes never broke from his gaze. "But I couldn't. Despite everything, despite what you did, you still love her."

Fett broke eye contact and looked away. She continued. "You called out to her in your delirious state. You sounded so . . . sad."

"A natural response to regret," he said quietly, closing his eyes, feeling the pain begin to overwhelm him.

Lethia weighed his words carefully. Having spent her share of years knowing him, albeit, from a distance. She knew enough to know that whatever information he divulged about himself should never be taken lightly.

"Of course." She looked over at the bounty hunter, whose eyes remained wasn't sure if he had lost consciousness again, until he asked, "What is the extent of my injuries?"

Despite the steadiness in his voice, Lethia understood how much pain he was in. And it amazed her that he had not cried out in pain from the day he found him dying in the sand. He was a stubborn one; unwilling to die, unwilling to give up. No one, during her time in the palace, had displayed such resolve or tenacity. She shuddered inwardly; it frightened her to realize how much Boba Fett deserved to be feared.

"Nerve damage to your left hand; second-degree burns around your neck, chest and back – and everywhere else that was unarmored. Your ribs are broken and the worst of it is in your right leg. The acid's gotten to deep tissue there. Seems like your left leg is fine, since it was already a prosthetic."

Fett shifted on the cot, uncomfortable with Lethia discovering the truth about his amputated leg. "The med-droid said you're recovering quicker than expected. Gene therapy, right?"

"I heal fast," he said coldly.

"Your helmet," she continued, "protected most of your face and head. Though with all your injuries, it's amazing you're alive."

"I'm not easy to kill."

"So they say." The girl and the bounty hunter stared at each other in silence.

"How long have I been out?"

"Several days."

He looked down at his arms and discovered a labyrinth of tubes snaking out from them. "Had to keep you hydrated while unconscious. If you're up for it, I can ask the med-droid to take out the G-tube."

Fett painfully raised himself on one elbow to look at the tube protruding from his stomach. Unable to bear the pain much longer, he lowered himself back on the cot and let out a deep breath. "You never did intend to kill me this time. You had other plans."

Lethia nodded. "You're right. I was going to make you take me to Greta. To help me find her."

"And how did you plan on 'making' me?"

She shrugged. "Jabba's sickbay, as decrepit as it is, has a host of interesting-looking drugs. In your weakened state, it wouldn't be hard to administer some to you." She slowly drew a capped syringe with a blue liquid in it. "The med-droid tells me this paralyzes a patient, rendering them immobile – permanently."

Fett narrowed his eyes, then closed them as if tired of speaking. "You won't need it," he said. "I already intend on finding her – alone."

"No deal," she said, drawing closer with the syringe. "I come, or you don't go anywhere."

In a flash, Boba Fett grabbed her wrist and tore the syringe from her hand. Lethia's eyes widened in fear as this time, he drew near with the needle. But before she could struggle from his grip, he dashed the syringe to the ground where it shattered and spilled the paralyzing agent.

He was now sitting fully upright on the cot and twisting Lethia's wrist with an iron grip. Even helmetless, Boba Fett was still intimidating. "I go alone," he growled, as he released her arm and lay back on the cot, breathing heavily.

Rubbing her wrist, Lethia asked, "And what will you do when you find her?"

"Make things right."

Boba Fett's words echoed in the dark chamber as Lethia searched his eyes for evidence of his sincerity. His eyes, like the mask he had always worn, revealed nothing. But, as she already knew – any utterance from this man was as good as true.

"I'm glad to hear it," she said quietly, still rubbing her wrist while keeping her distance. "But what if she won't have anything to do with you?"

"I'll find that out for myself."

"You promise you're not lying to me," she tested one last time.

Fett closed his eyes and nodded. The beads of sweat forming on his temples indicated that his pain was becoming unbearable. Lethia, assured of his intentions, quietly opened his hand and wrapped it around the pain med controls. "Then I promise I won't try to hurt you. Use this. Get better soon. Who knows how long they'll keep her alive."


	13. Darkness

_Hi Readers,_

_Many, many apologies for the very long hiatus from this story. Too many life changes put this story on the backburner, and I was having trouble figuring out how to end it! Well, thanks to all who have reviewed and kept asking for more. I've not ignored your requests! All the best, A._

Killing Ascii was as instinctual as breathing. She didn't even remember planning it out, only that the moment she wanted him dead, he was already lying in a pool of his own blood, his hands strewn across the room in a smear. But it wasn't _him_. Though she'd never seen Boba Fett's face, she knew the man she had killed and unmasked was the imposter. She remembered Fett's scent keenly. This was a clean jumpsuit, lacking the acrid musk of blasterfire, the rot of the palace, Tatooine, dust.

Her victory over her tormentor, however, was short. The lab doors opened and a flood of stormtroopers charged through. Still charged on adrenaline and her previous kill, she took them down easily enough. Six of them, down in a few seconds. But she wasn't ready for what came next, the strangling force that crippled her. She fell, awake, watching as Vader's Crimson Guard took her down with a wave of their hands.

Greta woke to utter darkness and pain. Her head was pounding, every muscle felt like they had been snapped in two. And the smell – it smothered her senses, this heavy blanket of rot and waste. Groggily, she probed the floor, then the walls feeling nothing but long, deep grooves in both. Feeling around the corners, she found no cracks, no joints – nothing that could tell her where she was, no light to help her see. "How do I get out of this one?" she wondered aloud.

A voice, heckling, startled her. "You don't." She spun around, her body ready to defend herself. The voice coughed, and she realized it wasn't coming from in her own cell. She followed the noise to the far end of the cell, finding a small grate. Kneeling down to it, she asked, "Where am I?"

"Place to die," the voice answered, with a rasping cough. "Can't you smell it?"

"Who are you?"

"Was personal cook to Colonel Zaruk. Tried to poison him."

"Are you with the Alliance?"

"Gods, no," the voice replied with a hoarse laugh. "Just didn't like him."

Greta leaned up against the wall as she sat on the cold ground. "You people who serve the Empire – you're all crazy. I'm surprised it's survived for so long."

"It'll tear itself to pieces one day. Guess I won't be around to find out."

Greta put her head in her hands, trying to soothe the throbbing in her skull. "When do they come? I mean, to kill us?"

The voice was silent at first, only wheezing. "They don't."

"What do you mean? How long have you been here?"

The voice was silent, only wheezing. "Dunno. Long time. No one comes. We get no food, no water. You get the picture."

Greta felt the dread in her gut grow as she understood his meaning: the grooves – the scratches – on the wall, the smell of decay.

"Not how you thought you'd die, eh?"

"No," Greta answered quietly. She fingered the empty space between her throat and her collarbone, thinking of her missing holocube of her father. Its absence only made her angry, only made her think of the one who had stolen everything from her.

How long she had been in the cell, Greta didn't know. It felt like weeks had passed. In the darkness, she kept groping along the walls, trying to find some kind of weakness in the cell. But there was none.

It wasn't entirely true that no one ever came. Footsteps came through the corridor beyond her cell, the occasional clang of a metal door, a heavy rustling. "The dead ones," the voice next door whispered. "Come to collect."

She tried not to lose resolve, but after each long, dark day, Greta began to give up. She spent her days counting the grooves in the walls, then after she had counted them all a hundred times, she began to make her own.

And now, in the eternal darkness, Greta lay starving and shivering on the cold cell floor. She drifted in and out of semi-consciousness, from dream to dream. One moment, she was with her father, the next burning in the sand under Tatooine's twin suns. Lethia had come to give her water, but disappeared. Then, it was night among blue-cast dunes. Boba Fett, with Vader's dark voice, offering her a knife, telling her to kill him. On and on the dreams went until her stomach would gnaw hard enough to jolt her momentarily into consciousness.

It was in these brief moments of wakefulness that she would despair that she had not yet died. Even the voice next door had stopped talking. The footsteps had come for him, too.

She fell asleep again under the haze of deep hunger and thirst, wondering what they did with her eye, if they kept it in a glass jar or had just thrown it out like a scrap of meat. The thought twisted into a dream, picturing Jabba the Hutt popping the eye into his mouth, crunching it like a piece of candy. His usual palace retinue was there, the dancing girls fearfully executing their moves across the floor, the roar of the Rancor beneath. Lethia was there, pouring water for wealthy clientele, but no sign of the one she used to look for. The weight of a hand landed on her shoulder and she turned, finding herself face to visor with Boba Fett. She backed up, taking a step away but he took her hand, told her to stay. Reaching up with his other hand, he unlatched the helmet but stopped. He looked up. She followed his gaze. The cave was shaking, small bits of ceiling rained down on the palace. Then, large chunks of rock began to fall. Fett grabbed her hand and was pulling her to safety. But it was too late. A loud groan, and the mountain above the cave split in two and the ceiling caved. Somewhere, in the distance, she heard Fett call her name. But she couldn't see him. All she could see was blinding light.


	14. Payback

The Deathstar was going to blow. Boba Fett was well aware of the urgency as he forced open the cell door. He called out to her, but she didn't respond. Greta was lying in the corner of the cell, face pressed up against a filthy grate. Thankfully, the sensor readings on his HUD showed she was still alive, but just barely. Quickly, he gave her a dose of a rare bacta serum, a concoction so expensive he only used it himself on point of death – like surviving a few hours in the belly of a Sarlacc.

Explosions erupted deep within the Deathstar and the walls shook. Fett knew the Rebels were getting the upperhand and it wouldn't be long until the Empire's prized weapon would implode on itself. He had to get Greta out of here, and fast.

But he didn't realize how fast he had to act. Within seconds, Greta had already charged him, throwing them both out of the cell with surprising force. The look on her face was wild, changed. And under the dim light of the hallway, he saw a long scar along her forehead leading to a cybernetic eye.

"I killed you . . . cut your hands off!" she screamed, hitting him with blinding force. Even through the durasteel armour, he felt the blows to his solar plexus and the sensitive areas burned from his encounter with the Sarlacc. "Why won't you _die_?"

It surprised him how quick she was – and how strong. The last time he had wrestled with her, she didn't nearly have the force she did now, nor the skill. She dodged his attempts to hold her with ease, and came at him with an aggressiveness he had never seen in her before. In his coming to the Deathstar, he hadn't counted on having to put up such a fight. He had left Tatooine in bad shape, knowing he had enough strength to fend off measly Stormtroopers. But this – hit after hit – Fett actually began to worry Greta could kill him before he had a chance to explain. The bacta he had given her wasn't even supposed to affect her for another couple hours. But he had had no choice. She was dying when he found her.

It took most of his strength to finally get a hold of her arms, pulling her close to him. "It's _me_, Greta. We have to get out of here. I'm trying to _save_ you." Greta stopped struggling, the fog of her dreams leaving her. The voice like gravel, the smell of blasterfire, the slightly metallic, earthy scent. Her pupils widened. It was _him_.

The Deathstar rumbled around them, then jolted violently, throwing them both in different directions. Smoke began filling the room.

"_Save_, me? Where were you when they did this to me?" she hissed, getting to her feet.

"Probably in the Sarlacc. Being digested," he growled.

"Leave it to you to survive even that." A metal crossbar from the ceiling dislodged, crashing between them. Boba Fett staggered toward her, trying to close the distance.

"The girl, Lethia," he said. "She helped me."

"She should have killed you while she had the chance."

"She tried."

Greta's eyes narrowed angrily, her voice strangled. "If you've hurt her . . ."

"She's safe. I promised her I would find you."

"Promised?" she spat, anger once again welling up inside. Fett rounded the fallen pieces of ceiling, approaching her slowly like she was a wounded animal. "Your promises are worth nothing."

He caught her arm, pulling her back. She fought against his hold, and slammed her elbow into his diaphragm, despite his armour. "You've found me," she growled near his earpiece. "But you'll never use me again." Fett doubled over, as the more severe Sarlacc burns on his side cracked open. He sucked in a deep breath against the pain. Seizing the opportunity, she delivered several sharp kicks to his injured side. He fell to his hands and knees, gasping. She closed in on him, ready to strike again, when she saw dark liquid running down the edge of his helmet. It dripped on the white tiled floor, forming a red pool near his hands.

The rage that was driving her subsided. She stared at the blood, unsure of herself and her resolve to destroy him. She had never _seen_ anything human about him before. She knelt down beside him and held out her hand to touch the edge of his helmet, the blood running slowly, some of it running down his neck guard. Though something within her called out for revenge, her heart refused to go any further. It was as though her old self was returning from watching the bloodshed, her conscience now able to control her again. She blinked and looked down. Fett had put his hand in hers, dropping something small and hard in her palm. It was her holocube, strung on the chain he had gave her.

"Greta, I'm sorry," he said quietly, through laboured breathing. "For everything."

Greta stared at the holocube in her hand, absently touching the implant in her right eye. The throbbing in her head grew quiet.

Fett reached up and touched her face. "Please. Forgive me."

She looked at his visor, searching his eyes and finding only her own, miserable reflection. Still, she said nothing, her lips forming a hard line. As the Deathstar began to groan and shake with more violence, she only stared at him, clutching the holocube in her fist. She got to her feet and backed away.

More smoke flooded the hallway as Fett struggled to stand, the pain of his blistered skin overwhelming him. He tried to close the distance between them, but she continued to back away until he could only see her faintly, shaking her head, with sorrow in her face. Another explosion and more smoke. She was gone.


	15. Restitution

_The first time he had noticed her, he had docked the Slave in Jabba's shipyard and saw her laboring in the shipyard, dismantling an old engine with her bare hands. The woman had nothing to work with, but she worked hard; her hands bled, but she kept at it._

_That night, she had come up from her station to the audience chamber and settled into an obscure spot with a drink she had worked hard to bargain for at the bar. Fett happened to be standing nearby, but she hadn't noticed. She didn't even know who he was. He watched her, sipping the dark ale and watching the events unfold, looking away when the dancers were thrown to the Rancor. At one point, she noticed him watching her and offered him a chair. "Why don't you sit down," she said. He hesitated, but agreed. It was strange, he noted, that she didn't seem to fear him._

_"I've seen you here often," she said. "You must be very good at what you do." He nodded and changed the subject. He flirted with the idea of seeing what it would be like to talk to this girl without her fear, his bounty hunter self between them. For a good while, they talked. Or at least, Greta did most of the talking. He merely asked questions. From that conversation, he learned she had lost her father as a child, made a slave and had spent most of her life in the palace. He, she learned, was in some sort of trade, though he wouldn't really say what. She had also asked about his planet of origin. He hedged around the subject, too, but eventually mentioned he was Mandalore. At the mentioned of this, she paused and grew white._

_"I-I'm sorry," she said awkwardly._

_"Why?"_

_"To have wasted your time – to have been so presumptuous. I didn't know."_

_"There is nothing to be sorry about," he said, smiling faintly beneath the visor._

Boba Fett thought of Greta those years ago, her curious eyes peering behind her long, brown hair. Now, on this small planet, he kept his watch while hidden in shadows, observing the woman who, over two years ago, could not then forgive him.

He had escaped the Deathstar, just as he was certain Greta had also escaped. But finding her after the explosion was another matter. It was chaos everywhere as the galaxy strove to re-order itself after the fall of the Empire. Greta had disappeared entirely. She left absolutely no tracks, and Boba Fett, for the first time, was confounded on a hunt.

Finally, after tireless searching, the little he had to go on brought him to a planet on the far reaches of the outer rim, to a small village on the eastern continent. And he watched her now, outside her small stone house, calling after someone down the street. She looked well with the sun's glow on her face. He noticed, too, that her cybernetic eye was gone, and in its place, a patch covering the socket. She stood in the street searching for the one she was calling with a smile on her lips.

A small giggle came from behind a pile of crates. Greta stalked around it, and lunged, causing an eruption of giggles from behind. She came out with a dusty little two-year-old, who had buried his face into her shirt as she tickled him ruthlessly.

Boba Fett leaned in closer, curious about the child and his relationship to Greta.

"No more!" cried the boy, laughing.

"Oh yes, little man," Greta replied, holding him close. "You are doomed!"

The child squirmed and squealed, as he fought his way out of her grasp. Finally, she let go and he toddled a few steps away, only to come running back with his arms in the air. "More!"

"A glutton for punishment, Joren," she laughed. "I'm afraid I've gotten you too riled up for bed."

The child tugged at her pant leg still. "Up?"

Greta scooped him up in his arms and kissed his ruddy cheeks, her hair falling over his little face. She whispered something inaudible to him, and sent him inside the house. Before joining him, she stood, staring up at the sky with a look of contentment on her face.

Greta was coming down the stairs from putting Joren to bed, feeling the weight of night blanketing across the planet. She often felt a kind of foreboding at sunset, as the oncoming darkness often brought on the awful memories of the lightless cell in the Deathstar. She felt night's oppression now, as she gazed out her window. All was silent: Joren's cheerful voice gone and the day's tasks on hold till the next. It was times like these that her heart admitted its deep loneliness and ached for the things she had lost.

She thought of Lethia, far away on Tatooine, running her own moisture farm as her father once did. It made her glad to think that she had found happiness at least, having married a local Bantha rancher, and living as a free person. As for Greta, she had her quiet life here and her own shop. But she was alone, save for Joren and his grandmother, Kass.

Dear, meddling Kass had tried to encourage her to marry, even going as far as setting her up with local bachelors. But Greta found no interest in any of them. It was probably best, she thought, to be alone considering the kind of baggage – the secrets – she carried.

The sky parted to reveal a cluster of winking stars. She gazed at them, wondering at the vastness of the galaxy and where in all of it _he_ was. Though she had left him badly injured on a nearly-destroyed Deathstar, she knew Boba Fett would survive. He was out there somewhere.

It had been over two years, but his plea for her forgiveness still lived in her thoughts. She had had time, in this new life, to reconsider the last time they met. He had gone back on a job he had taken - from Darth Vader no less – to apologize, to ask for her forgiveness. She also remembered how he refused to fight back, even though she almost killed him. She remembered his voice, too, harsh as it ever was, but lined with remorse. It almost seemed like a dream, to think that Boba Fett, the most dangerous bounty hunter in the galaxy, would go through such lengths just to admit that he was wrong. But it had happened. She touched the glass-like holocube hanging from her neck, fingers drifting to the silver chain he had given her.

"Good to see you haven't lost it," a voice behind her said.

Greta recognized the voice instantly. She turned to see Boba Fett appear from the shadows of her night-darkened home, flecks of light glinting off his visor.

"So you found me," she said quietly.

"You weren't easy to find," he admitted. "It was only a matter of time."

Greta approached him slowly, wrapping her robe more tightly around herself. "You don't give up easy, do you?"

"I never give up."

She was close now, close enough to see all the dents and scratches on his infamous helmet. Close enough to look at her own reflection in his visor. Her eyes narrowed. "Why are you here, Fett? You know what happened the last time you paid me a visit."

"I want to talk. That's all."

"Talk? You've never been a man of many words, Boba."

"Only when necessary."

Greta's lips pressed into a hard, thin line. Slowly, she reached up and touched the t-shaped visor where his mouth would be, running her fingers down the hard edge. "Then let me see you," she said quietly.

Cautiously, he took both her hands and brought them to the sides of his helmet. "There isn't much to see," he warned, almost a whisper. In that moment, she heard trepidation in his voice and wondered if the Sarlacc had taken the whole of his face.

At first, she kept her gaze on the helmet in her hands. She looked at it, feeling like she was holding a decapitated head.

"Would you look at me, Greta?" he asked. His voice was different from how it sounded through the helmet mic. It was warmer and more full. Slowly, she looked up to face him.

It was like looking at a stranger. All these years, she had identified him by his signature helmet, the t-shaped visor that was his face. This man with burn scars across more than half his face, and piercing eyes that searched hers, was foreign.

As though he felt too heavily her eyes on him, he looked down, searching for words. "Greta," he began, "My face is a map of my weaknesses. These scars tell my moments of failure, which I refuse to show anyone – but you. I've tried to erase the stain of human frailty with this identity, but I've already shown you how weak I really am – to be manipulated by Vader through my damned ambition. To have let you suffer, when I should have protected you."

He then lifted his eyes to meet hers. Her face was impassive, grim. He continued. "You don't have to forgive me, Greta. I know how much I've hurt you."

"Then why bother coming all this way?"

He cupped her face in his hand, looking at her intently. "Because I love you, Greta. I have always loved you."

She kept her gaze fixed on him, uncertain of how to respond. Part of her was distrustful of him; another wanted to believe him desperately. She lifted her hand to touch him, like she needed to believe that he was really there. She touched the dark hair at his temple, ran her fingers down his scarred face and stopped at his lips.

And it was then that she surprised him. She met his lips with hers, first gently, then more urgently. Fett returned the kiss, pulling her closer to him. How they had both longed for this moment from the day they met, even after the Deathstar and all the months that followed. Slowly and reluctantly, Fett pulled away, a questioning look on his face.

"The child – upstairs – is he yours?"

Greta smiled wickedly. "What if he is?"

"I'd have to ask if you're still with his father," he replied somberly.

She touched his face again and smiled. "He's my neighbour's grandson. I look after him when his grandmother works late at the spice factory. Joren's parents are both dead."

"I saw you outside with him. You care for him very much."

"Yes. He's the closest thing I have to a family."

"You've always wanted that, a family."

"As much as you didn't want the liability of family ties," she answered, knowingly.

"That was before. Things have changed."

"Have they?" she tossed him his helmet.

Catching it in his gloved hands, Boba Fett looked at his own visor, thinking. Finally, he spoke. "Seeing you with the boy . . . I was jealous of the man who had given you the child. Who shared in your happiness."

Fett had his head bowed as he spoke, his eyes concealed by the shadows of his brow. Greta turned away, her arms crossing her chest as she walked to the window. She closed her eyes as she fought the mixed feelings in her heart, trying to make sense of the anger and love that confused her.

"Mandalorians are warriors, not family men," she said coldly.

"Not true. They were as loyal as husbands as they were soldiers."

"Perhaps. But not the ones named 'Fett'," she returned, a little acidly.

Fett closed the distance between them, turning her around to face him. His face was fierce, his eyes intense. His voice, however, was low and restrained. "My father was a good man. For me, I know I don't deserve you or to be forgiven – you've made that perfectly clear. But I boarded the dying Deathstar for you, brought you your holocube. I spent two years looking for you, just to make sure you were all right. If you still can't believe that I only want you to be happy, then I'm wasting my time."

The flood of his words struck her. Greta has not heard him say so much at one time before, nor the emotion on his face as he said it. She took a deep breath, running her hand in her hair. Finally, she braved his gaze and put a hand on his chest. "No. Stay," she whispered. "I'm sorry." She took his hands, and taking off his gloves, lay them on her hips. The anger in his face disappeared as he leaned in, tasting her lips as she wrapped her arms around his neck.

Gently, she broke off the kiss and said, "I forgive you." He received it with a nod, and she buried her face into his neck, taking in his warm, earthy scent. They stayed like that for a while, feeling something like peace for the first time in years, and the contentment that they had both finally found in each other what they had lost years ago - _home_.


End file.
